


A Marriage Is More Than a Wedding

by BeaRyan



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: Baby Charloe, F/M, Fluff, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-27
Updated: 2014-06-27
Packaged: 2018-02-06 10:03:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1854013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeaRyan/pseuds/BeaRyan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bass wanted to pour romance and luxury around like a drunk with a sack of stolen diamonds in Vegas, but ultimately he decided to propose to Charlie in a way that suited her. (COMPLETE. The chapter breaks are time jumps.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. News

It had taken less than a year to drive out the Patriots, and now the free press they’d encouraged was left with nothing to cover but the weather and business reports. It didn’t sell papers. Short actual news to fuel demand, the press engaged in the sort of speculative gossip journalism not seen since before the blackout when everyone had been required to declare allegiance to either Team Jen or Team Angelina in the War for Brad Pitt. 

Bass tried not to let it bother him. During the Monroe Republic there had been rumors about him and Miles. Him and Jeremy. Him and both Nevilles, individually and together. Basically, if he, she, or it seemed likely to have functioning sex organs or a lubricateable hole, someone claimed Bass had taken it for a test drive. 

The stories about Charlie bothered him though. One paper called them “The Lady and the Tiger,” accusing her of shenanigans worthy of Anne Boleyn while Bass was reduced to a vicious animal on a chain. Another paper dubbed their capital “New Camelot.” Charlie was Guinevere, a powerless figurehead holding down the castle, while Bass was out nobly questing for the good of the kingdom. He wasn’t sure if he was Lancelot or Arthur. It probably depended on which one of them the paper decided to pin an affair on first. A third claimed they were at each others throats and ran extensive Op-Ed pieces supporting the alleged position of one or the other. 

When Charlie stopped by his office to pick him up for lunch, he waved the latest cover at her. It was all written between the lines about their very special relationship with his horse. 

“If it bothers you, don’t read it,” she said. 

“We should feed them some news.” 

“Clearly you have embraced the idea of a free press.” 

“Fine, not government stuff. What about creating a social news story? We could do a royal wedding. It would give them something to write about, at least for a while,” Bass said. 

Charlie ignored what he’d implied. Half the country thought they were married already, and the rest, even the ones who thought they were fucking, were certain they hated each other. If he wanted to stake a public romantic claim to her, he was going to have to get down on one knee and do it properly. “How will more articles about what I’m wearing strengthen my professional image?” she asked. 

“It won’t,” he conceded. He took a moment to assess her and decided not to push the issue. She was a Matheson. You’d only ever know as much about her feelings as she felt like telling you and pinning her down would be more trouble than it was worth if it was even possible. “Lunch in public or private?” he asked. 

“They’re setting up for us in the Congressional dining room.” 

He slid into his uniform jacket, a match to Charlie’s save the different ranks they bore, and checked his image in the mirror. “Both it is.”


	2. Proposal

Still high on the news that he was going to be a father again, Bass wanted to pour romance and luxury around like a drunk with a pocket full of stolen diamonds in Vegas, but ultimately he decided to propose to Charlie in a way that suited her. She was straightforward and practical. He would respect that. Even the ring was something he thought she’d like, a blue topaz from Texas set in silver. It was pretty without looking delicate and didn’t look like he’d wasted money that she’d think was better spent on food or medicine. 

Lunch in the gazebo would be an understated affair. Refreshing (and boiled for sterilization) spring water, dry bread, and hard cheese. A soldier’s meal. He and Charlie had been soldiers before they’d become polticians. It suited them and their life together. Also, those were the foods she’d been able to keep down since she’d gotten pregnant. 

He was leaning against the gazebo railing when Charlie arrived. She grabbed the bread and dropped to a seat on the bench before waving him over to sit beside her. She broke off hunks and devoured half the loaf before leaning her head against his shoulder. She slowed her progress on the bread, even remembering to offer to share with Bass, but didn’t stop eating. 

“At least you’re eating again,” he said. 

“I’m eating everything in sight,” she said. 

“We have cheese,” he offered. 

Charlie scrunched her nose. “Do not name foods. Just let me enjoy my bread.” 

Bass wrapped an arm around her and pulled her in close. He threw a glance behind them, searching for Charlie’s guards, and was both relieved and annoyed to find them. Two had good vantage points. The third was staring at them. Bass glared and the young man finally remembered his job was to watch over them, not to watch them. 

Charlie smiled as Bass adjusted his world without even standing. When the guard had looked away and Bass had turned his attention back to her, she said, “I didn’t tell you I was pregnant sooner because I didn’t want you to start acting weird.”

“I’m not acting weird.” 

“Yeah you are.” 

The looks they exchanged in lieu of conversation boiled down to “yeah you are” and “no I’m not” tossed back and forth like a ball on a field. 

Bass said, “It’s not weird. I just want to get married.”

“We are married,” Charlie answered. 

“No we’re not,” Bass said. 

“I answer when people call me Mrs. Monroe. We’re married.” 

Bass countered. “When people call you Mrs. Monroe, you answer that you prefer Chief Matheson.”

“That’s not going to change. Three years ago I followed you to a new country. We’re having a child, Bass. How much more joined together can we get?” 

“Yes, we’re having a child. What if something happens to you? How will people know it’s mine?”

“They’ll know because you’ll stab them if they say otherwise.” 

Bass huffed and tried a different tactic. “Didn’t you ever dream of your wedding as a kid?”

“People stopped doing that when I was a kid. We aren’t religious, so it’s just a party. Who would come anyway? Connor’s in Cuba. My parents are in Texas. I guess I just don’t see the point.” 

“I want to say the words, Charlie. I want you to know.”

“I do know, Bass.” She cupped his cheek and smiled as she stared into his eyes. “For better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, so long as we both shall live.”

Bass answered, “For better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, so long as we both shall live.” 

“You can give me my ring now.” 

“How’d you know I have one?”

“I know you.” 

Bass withdrew the ring from his pocket and slid it on her finger. “May I kiss my bride?”

“You may now kiss your bride.” 

Bass kissed her. This wasn’t the wedding he wanted, but if it was what he could get, he’d take it. A few weeks later, when he accepted that that really was all the wedding he was getting, he bought himself a ring.


	3. Carmen

The pounding at the door awakened him, and Bass reached for his sword and cursed. He was 68 and too old, he thought, to be leaping out of bed to stab people. Did assassins knock? And honestly, why would they bother with them at all? He taught history at Harvard and was writing a book. Charlie quietly greased the wheels that made the country run, listening and observing, engineering the machine as much as her parents ever had, but so far as most people knew she was retired.

He heard the guard answer the door then the footfalls on the stairs and a soft knock at his bedroom door. 

“Enter,” Bass called as he pushed himself to sitting without getting out of bed. There’d have been more than one guard knocking louder and faster if it was an evacuation situation. 

“Sir, there’s a young woman downstairs who claims she’s your granddaughter.” 

Bass’ heart skipped a beat and Charlie groaned beside him, finally admitting she was awake. It had been six years since their last visit to Cuba. It hadn’t gone well. Bass patted Charlie’s hand. “Stay here. I’ll go check it out.” 

Bass grabbed his robe and tried not to make it obvious he was stretching in front of the guard. He told himself he was battle-worn rather than just getting old, but it was a little harder each year to pretend that his hair was getting blonder. He’d shaved the beard so it would stop mocking him. 

The girl trembling in his grand foyer with a lone escort could have been anyone. He hated to admit it, but a woman changed a lot between 13 and 19, so much so that he didn’t know if she was his granddaughter or not. Her mother had a darker complexion than Connor, and years ago Bass admitted to himself, if no one else, that Connor looked as much like Miles as like him. Stan, formally known as Sebastian Monroe, Jr., was undeniably his from the tips of his sandy blond curls to the way he owned a room the moment he entered it, but Connor and his family were harder to pin down. Still, they were his because once Sebastian Monroe declared you family then you were in no matter how badly you screwed up. Connor was a master at testing that limit. 

“Hola Abuelo.”

Damn it. He’d forgotten how bad her English was. 

“Carmen?” he asked. He wanted to believe it was her, to hug her and promise her the world, but he wanted to avoid looking like an ass even more. If she wasn’t Carmen and he welcomed her into his home, not only would he be embarrassed to have been deceived, Charlie would brain him for tucking a hot 20 year old into the room next to her son. Stan was every bit as much a horny moron at 17 as Bass himself had been. He needed to be able to tell his son in absolutely clear terms that this girl was off limits. Bass ran a hand through his hair and reminded himself to emphasize genetics and certainty. “Like a brother” and “maybe his daughter” hadn’t kept him off Charlotte. 

Her voice faltered as she switched to English. “Father sent a note.” 

With a trembling hand she reached for her bag and Bass again fought the urge to hug her. She called Connor “Father.” Not Dad or Papi or anything else warm. Father. Connor’s relationships with his sons and their mothers had seemed fairly solid when Bass had visited, but his marriage had soured years ago. Little Carmen had been treated like a princess, locked away in a remote castle and guarded by a woman Connor swore was a witch. 

Carmen held the wax sealed envelope out to him, and Bass took it and studied the embossing as if it held some meaning to him. If Connor had a special ring, he didn’t know what it looked like. He broke the seal and read the note. 

_Dad, The boys and I are handling things, but Carmen needs to leave the country for a while. Please take good care of her. Try not to let her fall in with any drug dealers or Mathesons. Love, Connor ___

__That was Connor alright, entitled and still bitter. Bass had no way of knowing though if the girl who carried the note was really his granddaughter. A maid could have knocked the girl on the head anywhere between here and Havana._ _

__“How’s your mother? Madre?” Bass asked. He knew his pronunciation sucked. Carmen herself had told him so the last time he’d seen her._ _

__“Esta muerta. Dead.” Her eyes filled with tears and Bass broke, quickly crossing the room to fold her into a hug. Screw caution. Charlie had shown him the intel the Northeast Republic had used when they’d decided to decline Connor’s request for support. Barring a miracle, Connor was going to lose power - at best he’d escape and live in exile - and the Cubans would be better off for it. This girl was his last connection to his older son, and she was never going home._ _

_________________________________ _

__

__It took less than a week for Carmen to settle in. The rust quickly came off the English her father had forced her to speak during his visits and the young people of Boston were thrilled by the girl with unbelievable tales of warm, foreign lands and hard, moral truths. She brandished an odd combination of highly interpreted Catholicism and entitlement that Bass claimed was historically common among European royalty. He opted not to explain how it had found his way into his granddaughter, but he seemed to take pride in her celebrity. Stan was more than happy to play chaperone as she made her way through the Boston social scene. Only Charlie seemed less than thrilled with the addition to their household._ _

__“No. You can’t go out again tonight. You have school tomorrow, Stan,” Charlie chided as she poked at her oatmeal, willing the water to absorb more quickly. “If your grades drop any further Harvard’s going to tell you not to bother showing up in the fall.”_ _

__“My father is a tenured professor and they’re constantly begging my mother, the former president, for guest lectures. I could show up nude the first day and they’d still let me come back.”_ _

__Carmen had been only half listening, but at the word nude her ears perked up. She proclaimed, “No, Stan. You must not go to school nude. It is immodest.”_ _

__Charlie scanned her granddaughter from head to toe and turned away to hide her eyeroll. In her tightly tailored dress with all the drug dealer trappings that Connor had taught her were signs of power, the girl looked like a tawdry knockoff of Julia Neville. She may have been wearing more fabric than some of her peers, but she wasn’t hiding anything._ _

__“You should not judge me,” Carmen said. “Judgement is for God. You are a whore.”_ _

__Bass and Stan both froze. Charlie hadn’t had anywhere close to enough coffee for this. She remained a Matheson to the core, and any battle occurring before ten AM was likely to be short and brutal. The politician’s smile she’d perfected over her years in government slid into place. “Pardon me?”_ _

__Carmen gestured to Bass. “He treats women like whores. My mother told me. He never married my grandma but they had a baby. He never married you but you had a baby. Whores. Just like my brothers’ mothers. It’s who the Monroe men are. It’s up to the women around them to preserve the decency of us all.”_ _

__Charlie burst out laughing._ _

__“Do you deny he treats you like a whore?” Carmen challenged._ _

__“Only when I ask him to,” Charlie answered._ _

__Carmen made a dramatic exit, complete with a few flourishes of her scarf, while Stan dropped his head into his arms and moaned, “Mom, don’t say stuff like that.”_ _

__When he’d regained his equilibrium, Bass said, “I want to get married.”_ _

__Stan gasped, “You two aren’t married?.”_ _

__Charlie answered, “We are married.”_ _

__“I want a wedding,” Bass said._ _

__“We aren’t religious,” Charlie said._ _

__“We’ll do it at City Hall,” Bass answered._ _

__“There’s nothing to do at City Hall. We already filed wills, medical powers of attorney, presumed parentage, and joint property and debt.”_ _

__“So there’s no reason we shouldn’t get a judge to do a wedding ceremony,” Bass countered._ _

__“That’s not a thing, Bass. The Northeast Republic doesn’t have civil weddings. There’s a packet of papers people do, but we filed them as we wrote them. Weddings are religious things, not legal ones.”_ _

__“You’re saying we can’t get married unless I find Jesus?”_ _

__“I’m saying if you say we aren’t married again I’m going to hit you with this coffee cup and you know I hit hard.”_ _

__Bass dropped the issue, but the thought gnawed at him. Were there really people who thought he and Charlie weren’t married?_ _


	4. Seventy

Bass didn’t bother to hide his smile. Stan’s girlfriend was about as subtle as a gunshot wound. Hannah would make a good addition to the family. 

“Well,” he answered, “My first wedding was a little over a year after the blackout. It wasn’t worth the risk to hunt up formal wedding clothes, so we just borrowed nicest, least stained things we could find in camp. I had black pants and a blue shirt and she wore a sundress.” 

“What about with Charlie?” 

Bass hedged. It was still a sore point for him that they’d never really had a wedding. “We were wearing the first uniforms of the Northeast Republic, the light-weight gray summer ones, when we said our vows.” 

“And for my wedding to Stan, will you wear a uniform or a tux or what?” 

Bass chuckled. At twenty she had the sort of confidence he hadn’t felt until well into his thirties. He couldn’t believe he’d be seventy next week. He’d really never expected to live this long, but, against all odds, he hadn’t died yet. He needed to finish writing his book on the Monroe Republic.

He smiled at the young woman and wondered who she’d have become it if she’d been born before the blackout. Surviving required a different skillset from building and maintaining. They called her generation the second wave, kids whose parents barely remembered life before the blackout. She owned her own business and she’d landed what some claimed was one of the most eligible bachelors in the Northeast Republic. In Bass and Charlie’s eyes she’d pulled their son out the the extended adolescence their family’s celebrity had accidentally given him. Charlie was relieved; she’d been slightly embarrassed by his shenanigans around town. Charlie herself had already fended off two marriage proposals by the time she’d turned twenty. Bass hadn’t even been old enough to legally drink. My how times had changed. 

“Bass?” Hannah called, drawing his attention back to her. She grinned as she said, “I’m the finest tailor in town. You’ve worn the uniform of four governments and you’re an expert in the Civil War. If I offered to make you ANYTHING for a formal occasion, and it would be fine because the bride said it would be fine, what would you wear?” 

“A tux,” he said. “I would never steal attention from the bride.” 

“I promise you the bride won’t mind.” 

Bass wrapped an arm around her and drew her in close. He was a hugger these days. “If the bride could do a more traditional cut instead of the disco lapels she’s trying to make trendy, that would be nice.” 

_____________________________________

 

A week later, in a dusty basement, Bass shook the hand of the librarian and offered a sincere thank you. For his birthday he’d given himself the gift of procrastination. He knew he should be working on his book about the history of the Monroe Republic and the founding of the Northeast Republic - the president of the university was demanding a first draft and the woman had Matheson levels of persistence - but it was the Civil War that held his heart. Even now, more than two decades after the fall of the Monroe Republic, his own wars were still too raw and his own mistakes too stark. In contrast, during the Civil War the 54th Massachusetts Regiment had refused pay until black soldiers were paid the same as white ones and had then gone out and kicked ass. It was the kind of history that was easy to embrace, and the documents the new owners of the building had found in the archives of this church had called to him like a siren’s song. He knew he’d bore the pants off of Charlie tonight, but he was happy with the way he’d spent his morning and she’d owe him some boredom after dragging him to a fundraiser this afternoon. 

“Dad,” Stan called from the foot of the steps. “You really need to come get dressed.” 

Bass moved slowly towards the staircase with only a slight backward look at the delicate yellowing papers and then headed upstairs to clean up. Stan had suggested they bring his tux with him so he wouldn’t have to stop by home to change before meeting Charlie. He couldn’t believe this idiot governor was holding a black tie event in the middle of the afternoon. It was just tacky. Tacky like the weird metal furniture the man decorated with. When Bass and Charlie had lived in the governor’s mansion they’d been at war with the Patriots, but the place had still looked like a seat of power. Now it looked like an IKEA. 

Hannah, already in her own gown, joined them for a final inspection of the pair of Monroe men. She straightened their seams and flattened their lapels before giving Bass a quick peck on the cheek as she finished. 

He winked at her and nudged his son. “Pretty girls still like me.” 

Hannah answered, “In that tux you’re hard to resist.” 

“I have a great tailor,” he said. 

“Stop!” Stan demanded. “We aren’t Mathesons.”

Bass chuckled. They’d never gone into details with him about why Charlie had her step-father’s last name but called him by his first name. With the arrival of Miles and Rachel last week - their first visit since Stan had been deemed old enough to understand - it had all come out. Hannah had laughingly dubbed him “Grunkle Miles”, a combination of grandpa and uncle, but Stan’s recent foray into respectability had left him less able to process this turn than he would have been a year ago when he’d been tearing up nightclubs with his own niece. 

Hannah opened the door to the dressing room and led the way down the hall to the church nave, slowing her pace and staring in awe at the soaring ceiling and stained glass windows. “Chapel?” she asked Stan. 

He checked his watch. “Yeah. Let’s go to the chapel,” he said. 

Bass looked from one to the other and noted the glee on their faces. “I thought you hadn’t set a date!” he exclaimed. 

Stan grabbed the heavy wooden door to the chapel and said, “We haven’t.” 

The music began as soon as Bass came into view. Stan stepped away, quickly making his way to the front via a side aisle, while Carmen stepped into his place beside Bass. Her gown matched Hannah’s, and it started to dawn on Bass what was happening. He let his eyes wander the small crowd in the chapel. Connor and his two surviving sons were there along with their families, as were Jeremy and his mob of a family. A few others, all close friends made during their years in the Northeast Republic filled in the rows of pews. Miles and Rachel’s infant grandson, content in his mother’s arms, cooed at him as Hannah and Carmen escorted him up the aisle, and the full extent to which he’d been duped began to dawn on him. 

When they reached the front, the girls each gave Bass a kiss on the cheek and moved to what would be Charlie’s side of the church while Bass moved into position beside Stan. 

“What religion is this church now?” Bass asked Aaron who stood clad in vestments at the center of the altar. 

“Flying Spaghetti Nanite?” Aaron said with a shrug. “I don’t know. I’m an internet minister. Last of my kind.” 

“You’ll marry anyone,” Bass said with a laugh. 

“Even you,” Aaron confirmed. 

When the first notes of “Here Comes the Bride” sounded, the small crowd turned as one to face the door. Charlie, flanked by Miles and Rachel, entered. Bass had seen her in a lot of gowns over the years, but she’d always avoided white and anything too ornate, claiming it undercut her authority as a leader to prance around like a delicate flower. Today she wasn’t just beautiful but lovely as she made her way down the aisle towards him with the fabric waves of her full dress shimmering around her.

The three of them stopped a few feet from him. Rachel gave Charlie a quick kiss and sat down next to her other daughter. Miles gave Charlie a peck on the cheek before extending a hand to Bass.

“I thought you were deeps sea fishing today,” Bass said. 

Miles shrugged. “Shark on a string. Marrying my girl to a deposed despot. Six of one, half dozen of the other.” 

The men hugged briefly and then Miles stepped into position beside Stan, standing up as Bass friend now that his duties as Charlie’s escort were done. Bass leaned over and kissed Charlie before Aaron had a chance to begin the service. “You outflanked me.” 

“Yeah, I did,” she said. Her grin crinkled her eyes. “I love you, Bass. Happy birthday.” 

Bass surveyed the assembled crowd. His wife, his sons, and his grandchildren were all gathered together along with dear friends new and old, and he wondered if he’d ever been happier than today, the day he finally got to see his wife as a bride. It was a tough call. He’d had a long life and a lot of very good days.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments welcome.


End file.
